


Kings of Bayville

by mugsandpugs



Category: X-Men Evolution
Genre: Brotherhood, Canon Compliant Through Season Two, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Jeez This Got Long, M/M, Quakesilver, There Are no Feelings Here, Underage Drinking, What Feelings, some canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-17 23:51:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10604907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugsandpugs/pseuds/mugsandpugs
Summary: As far as Pietro was concerned, Lance Alvers was six-foot-three inches ofuseless,and it rankled him to no end that he had to play second-fiddle to a big, rock-brained, testosterone-driven cliché like him. Not that he was bitter, of course. Just put out in a gentlemanly fashion. Obviously.





	

As far as Pietro was concerned, Lance Dominic Alvers was six-foot-three inches of _useless,_ and it rankled him to no end that he- he! Pietro _freaking_ Maximoff!- had to play second-fiddle to a big, rock-brained, testosterone-driven, greasy-haired wannabe-grunge _cliché._ Had nobody bothered to tell him that the nineties were _so_ last year? It was the 2000's now! Everything was supposed to be _sleek,_ fast, new! Silver!

Even his _name_ was stupid. Alvers, Lance, the Avalanche? Did Mystique think she was _funny?_ He'd had to quickly inform her of his own self-chosen title before she got the bright idea of calling him _Petey the Speedy_ or something equally foul. He shuddered at the thought. His dad had the worst taste in broads. 

Magneto, however, was being resolutely stubborn on the matter. He was all, _don't stand out, Pietro,_ and, _don't reveal your hand too early, son._ Psh. Whatever. 

So, fine. Acting. Pietro could act. He could _act_ like Lance's righthand man, until the time was right, at least. Until he could shed this asinine _second place_ façade. Pietro was the fastest; the smartest; the best. He never, _ever_ came in second place if he didn't want to. 

It was more than a little maddening. Not that he was bitter, of course. Just... _put out in a gentlemanly fashion._ Obviously. 

Take this morning, for example. Pietro had shown up fashionably late to the boarding house, just after ten, and had knocked smartly on the door. He'd had to knock three more times before some little gremlin, Todd, he knew he was called; he'd studied his file- answered, griping at all the noise he was making. He'd squinted at Pietro, shielding his freaky yellow eyes with a webbed hand as though the sunlight glinting off Pietro's hair was blinding him. Maybe it was. 

"Whodahell are _you?"_ He'd quipped, in an accent thicker than week-old clam chowder. 

What was Alvers thinking, letting his little toady- heh- answer the door for a stranger??? That was _his_ job, wasn't it? Minute freaking _one_ and he was already a complete failure. 

"I'm your new roommate," Pietro said primly, and pushed past him. "Where's Alvers?" 

Todd hopped nervously at his side- Lord, he was short- seemingly uncomfortable with this new development. "Do you mean, uh, you're... you know. One of us?" 

If he was trying to walk like a normal human being, he was doing an absolutely horrendous job of it. The kid might as well have painted the words "I'm an amphibian!" over his scrawny chest. 

"What do you think?" Pietro replied ambiguously, and let himself into the kitchen. 

He was stopped in the doorway, his eyes immediately drawn to an enormous boy, so big his bottom drooped off either side of the poor chair he was slowly murdering. He was wearing a pair of overalls large enough to wallpaper the room with, and frowning confusedly at the textbook before him. 

To his right, straddling another chair at the cracked and scarred dining table, was Alvers. 

"No, no, see, you _carry_ the one, man. You did it earlier... I know you can do it again." 

"I can't," muttered the mountain of a boy. His cheeks were visibly reddening with frustration. "I _can't,_ Lance, it's too hard-" 

"Okay, okay," Alvers said soothingly, holding his palms up. "We've been at this forever, and algebra's pretty tough. Lets take a break. Mystique finally bought that weight set like she said she would, why don't you go check it out? We'll get this done once you feel better." 

The blob of a boy- Fred Dukes; Pietro had read his file, too, but there was a difference between reading his measurements on paper and seeing them in real life!- considered this for a moment, then nodded, the red disappearing from his face as quickly as it'd come. "I guess." 

He shook the floor when he stood and walked towards a door that, presumably, lead to an outside patio of some sort. 

"You're doing a great job!" Alvers called after him, looking so earnest it was _sickening._

"Hey, yo, Lance!" Todd called, drawing his attention to the doorway they were both awkwardly paused in. Lance turned to look at them, and Pietro felt the very air freeze in his lungs. 

The boy was... _something._ Square jaw. Thick hair. A hooked nose that looked like it had been broken once or twice, and olive skin. Pietro knew his mom was an immigrant from Greece, forced to Americanize her surname at customs, and that, like Pietro, he'd mostly been raised in foster homes, but hadn't bothered to read any more about him. 

Now, looking at the real thing instead of the blurry, black-and-white photo paperclipped to his file, Pietro suddenly felt interested in reading more. What sort of genetics could pair broad shoulders with such a tapered waist, could make such a full lower lip and slightly crooked teeth that should have looked dorky, but only made his smile more sincere? The skin around his brown eyes was marred with faint white marks: laugh lines. 

He looked like the sort of boy who would fight to protect your honor, who would get you into heaps of trouble but always be there to drag you back out again. He looked like he'd be nice to cuddle with. 

Pietro hated him more than ever. 

He stood up- and _up_ and up, tall people were just awful; Pietro wasn't even _short,_ five-foot-seven was perfectly acceptable for a runners build, thank you very much- leaning his weight on one hip in a 'cool dude' pose that made Pietro want to roll his eyes. Or ogle his exposed deltoids under his ridiculous vest. Whichever. 

"Hey, Todd, who's your friend?" he asked, and oh, _hell_ no, calling the Toad his _friend_ was just not gonna fly, and he opened his mouth to inform Mr Tall-Dark-and-Handsome just this, but Todd beat him to it. 

"I don't know, yo, says he's one of us? I guess Mystique sent him, or whatever." 

"Huh," Lance scanned him up and down with more interest. Pietro resisted the urge to stand up taller and lightly flex his arms, instead remaining as he was. Then the other mutant grinned. "Cool, man! What's your name?" 

"Pietro," he said shortly and, not wanting to dwell in this den of misfits any longer, looked around for a hallway. "Where's my room?" 

Something brushed him as it slipped silently past and he jumped, easily spooked; one moment he was standing in the doorway, the next he was stood atop the old, battered table, leaving a ghostly afterimage in his wake. 

Lance blinked, dumbfounded, and looked around for him, turning when he heard the table creak under the newcomer's weight. Then his smile widened to a beam. 

"You're _fast!"_

Pietro clamped his teeth down on the _no shit!_ that threatened to escape him, instead only giving a nod, and looked to see what had startled him. A girl in the kitchen with a skunk stripe in her russet hair; thin and tragically goth in the same way Lance was tragically grunge. Apparently nobody in this house had any sense of fashion; fantastic. He recognized her as Anna Marie, the Rogue, Mystique's own little ward, though she didn't know that. Yet. 

She ignored him as she dug in the refrigerator, as though beautifully elfin and inspiringly talented boys arrived in her boarding home every day, found a soda, and retreated, giving him an idea of where the bedrooms were. 

He didn't even bother to bid Lance a stiff _good afternoon_ as he disappeared in her direction, looking to claim the best room that was still available. 

The identical bedrooms, both up and downstairs, were paltry and bare; a naked, twin-sized bed, a wardrobe that looked as though it had been purchased in the clearance section of Ikea, and an unremarkable nightstand made up all the amenities. 

He raced through the house twice at lightening speed, checking out which rooms belonged to whom (Lance's room, he presumed, based on the ratty band t-shirts and ripped jeans all over the floor, had cracks in the ceiling; Fred's bed had buckled in the middle, so he'd moved the mattress to the floor; Todd's room had suspicious, unhealthy-green tinged slime dried and crusted on the walls. 

He didn't dare check out the room from which _Good Charlotte_ music pulsed, knowing better than to let Rogue come near enough to touch him, and assessed which was closest to the bathrooms (shared and co-ed- were they _heathens?!_ ) 

He finally chose the empty room that seemed the least offensive, skipping the one situated directly above Lance's (the last thing he needed was to be woken by sudden shaking) and flung himself down on the bed, pouting over X-Men that got a _private mansion._ His father owned a damn _asteroid_ and he was stuck in this... this... _hell_ with these rejects. 

He was the most unfortunate boy in the entire world. 

... 

The age-old adage was wrong: Things were most certainly _not_ any better in the morning. 

He was forcefully jolted from sleep just before dawn to a loud bang, some creative swearing, and boyish cackling. Legs working faster than his brain, he zipped out of his room at the sound to see what was going on while remaining hidden, in case they were under attack and he needed to use someone as a meat-shield. 

Apparently someone (Fred) had had the bright idea to try tossing Todd onto the roof to see if he'd stick; it hadn't worked, and the force of the throw had sent Todd crashing through the ceiling and into Rogue's bedroom. He'd only just managed to miss direct skin contact with the sleeping mutant, and was now paying the price by getting thoroughly chewed out. 

Everyone shut up when Lance, bedheadded and wearing nothing but a white tank top and blue boxers trudged upstairs, eyes bleary with sleep. 

"What," he said, sounding profoundly pissed off. "The hell." 

"You promised me they'd stay out of my room!" Rogue looked near-tears, her legs long and white under her sleep t-shirt as she stared at the rubble and plaster covering every square inch of her bedroom. Instead of being sexy, all her exposed skin, a weapon in and of itself, just made Pietro nervous. "You _promised!"_

Fred and Todd's laughter died down. "Yo, we didn't mean to," Todd explained, the apology in his voice directed towards Lance instead of Rogue. "It was an accident, honest." 

"I don't care," Lance growled, and Pietro swore he felt a slight rumble vibrating the house. Flakes of plaster chipped off the gaping hole in the ceiling and fell like snow into the rest of the pile. "You're not supposed to be messing around like that, and you made me break my promise. You're going to clean this up and then I want you to say sorry to Rogue, got it?" 

He turned to the girl, and instantly his angry, authoritative tone softened. "You can finish your sleep up in my room, Ro. I promise they _will_ fix this." 

She bit her lip, still clearly upset, but nodded. Scooping up her blanket, a book from her side table, and a pair of pants off the floor, she left the room. 

Finally noticing Pietro, Lance's expression morphed into a rueful smile, even as Fred and Todd began scooping up piles of the ceiling into Rogue's trash can. "Welcome to the Brotherhood," he said. "I'd say we're not always this crazy, but it'd be a lie." 

He yawned hugely without covering his mouth and slumped against the wall, and just like that he was a teenager in his underwear instead of an authoritative group leader, although unlike Pietro, his jaw had grown fuzzy with the need to shave. Not that Pietro couldn't grow facial hair! It would just take him a little longer; not _everyone_ had the pituitary gland of freaking Bigfoot. 

Lance seemed to wear his authority like a mask, but it was a familiar mask that he'd been wearing for a long time. 

"You must have younger siblings," Pietro remarked, and then inwardly rolled his eyes at himself. Getting friendly with Captain Morning Breath was _such_ a mistake in the making. Lance grinned and oh, the sight of that wicked curve to his mouth, eyeteeth bared wolfishly, did funny things to Pietro's stomach. Possibly he was allergic. 

"Yeah, three little brothers. Hopefully for mom's sake they don't turn out, you know... Like me." His grin turned a little mournful, and then was immediately redoubled with obvious effort. "How bout you?" 

Pietro _didn't_ know. To his father, his and Wanda's abilities were all that made them worth the oxygen they consumed. He'd heard of parents less than thrilled with mutant children, but that wasn't a concern he faced. He stopped to think whether or not to answer Lance, but saw no harm. One couldn't lie _all_ the time, even if they _were_ a mole. 

"I have a twin sister," he said, and before Lance could ask any follow-up questions, he brushed past him and went downstairs to the kitchen. 

_..._

He'd turned them down the first few times they tried to get him to go anywhere with them, but Lance's practicality made it impossible to go the whole weekend without indulging the group. 

"You're about to start a new school, man," he pointed out. "Don't you want to check it out?" 

So Pietro found himself sitting shotgun- he wanted to get his position in this ragtag team cemented early, though it rankled him he wasn't allowed to vye for driver just yet- in Lance's clunky jeep, driving ten over the speed limit all the way to school. It wasn't fast enough, and the seat belt (Lance insisted, the obnoxiously mothering hen) felt constrictive against his chest. He drummed his fingers on his knee and jiggled his leg, heel bouncing rabbit-quick on the floorboards. 

Lance said something; whatever it was drowned out by the screaming vocals of Kurt Cobain on the jeep's shitty radio. 

"What?!" Pietro shouted back, trying and failing to lip-read. Lance rolled his eyes and cranked the radio down several decibels. 

"I _said,_ how fast can you run? Are you faster than the jeep?" 

Pietro tried not to scoff too openly. "I could win a race with an Aston Martin on an open track with fifty-pound weights strapped to each leg and still have time to stop for lunch." If he sounded smug, could they really blame him? He was a well-put-together machine. He could outrun the speed of sound; a car was nothing in comparison. 

In the back seat, tucked between a scowling and hoodie-clad Rogue and a napping Todd, Fred leaned forward, interest sparkling in his pebble-blue eyes. "Do you get real tired, though? Like a cheetah?" 

When Pietro cocked his head, he elaborated, "Cheetahs can run really fast, but not for long. They have to rest a lot." 

"Fred knows a lot about animals," Lance explained with a fond, parental smile. Pietro was a bit surprised; the brute of a boy didn't seem the type. 

"No," he replied after a beat. "I don't get tired." It sometimes seemed like he hadn't been tired in years. _Go, go, go,_ that was all he ever did, moving too fast even to consider the repercussions of doing so, or fear the eventual toll it would take on his body. Something about the question tugged at a memory, faded by time, of collapsing to his tiny knees, panting, a palm on the floor to support his shuddering child-body. Of having to take long naps between sprints, eating piles of food to keep up his strength. 

Perhaps he'd been weaker before. His father's tampering would have fixed that, fixed _him._ He tried to ignore the way the thought made him shiver. He was better now. Farther from human than ever before. 

The school was pretty basic; no better or worse than Pietro was used to. He was exceedingly apathetic towards public high school. it wasn't as though it were hard to gain popularity, maintain a 4.1 GPA, or wow cheering crowds on the court. Boring. 

What _was_ interesting was how, once they'd walked into the office (just the two of them; the back-seat riders opted out), Lance changed- so subtly that even Pietro missed it at first glance. 

"Can I help you?" the woman at the front desk inquired. 

Lance, slouching, glanced at her, then back to the ceiling. When had he shoved a wad of double-bubble into his mouth? He chewed it absently, the very picture of delinquent disdain. It wasn't so much in how he was dressed, or his shaggy, unkempt appearance- though that didn't hurt- but in the stubborn set of his shoulders, the tilt of his hips, the twitch in his jaw; a completely different Lance than he'd been up until now. 

Pietro cleared his throat and stepped around him, introducing himself smoothly and explaining the situation. Flirting came second-nature to him, just another protective skin to hide behind, and he charmed her easily. Her smile disappeared as soon as she entered his name into her computer and scrolled through the file. 

"It says you have a recent arrest report?" she said, sharper than before, glancing back at him through her cat-eye reader glasses. Pietro swallowed nervously. He'd assumed his father had had that removed from school records. 

"Um," he fidgeted, wondering how to explain. 

Lance pushed not-too-subtly in front of Pietro, and Pietro clamped down on a sound of protest, too curious to so much as shoot him a dirty look. 

"Principal Darkhölme _personally_ requested he be sent here, so he's _going_ to school here," Lance said, planting both hands on the woman's desk and leaning into her space, making aggressive eye-contact. Though undoubtedly used to unruly teenagers, she flinched slightly; Alvers at this level of intensity was pretty intimidating. It was easy to forget how _big_ he was when he was playing the role of affable, caring leader. 

"Mr. Alvers," she said sternly, meeting his stare dead-on; impressive for a woman who couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds and had a broach of a Siamese kitten pinned to the breast of her polo shirt. "I'd appreciate if you didn't take that tone with me." 

Nudging Lance with his hip, Pietro resumed the foreground and gave her a reassuring smile. "It's okay, Lance," he told the taller boy, resting a hand on his upper arm like they were lifelong friends instead of near-strangers. "I'm sorry, Mz-" he glanced at her name plaque. "Thompson. He's very protective of me. I went through a hard time after the loss of my foster mother. I've been in therapy ever since, and Lance has been helping me recover. I'm ashamed of my outburst at my last school, and promise you it won't ever happen again." 

His eyes, he knew, shone with sincerity, and when her stern expression softened, he tried not to gag. People were so easy. Some pretty words from a pretty mouth were all it ever took. 

"Well, make sure that it doesn't, Mr. Maximoff," she tutted. "This is a respected establishment." 

Pietro nodded, all earnest sincerity, while, pressed to his side, Lance seethed. Mz. Thompson finally retreated into the back office to print him an ID, a schedule with his locker assignment in the top right corner, and to collect an armful of battered textbooks for him to carry. Pietro quickly took a step away from Lance, removing his hand, but Lance seemed neither to notice nor to mind. 

He thanked Mz. Thompson when she returned with his supplies, and made for the door, but she stopped him. 

"Mr. Maximoff," she said, and he and Lance halted. He looked over his shoulder at her and saw she was frowning at whatever other incriminating evidence his file had pulled up. "About your living situation. Your foster father-" 

"I'm living in Principal Darkhölme's boarding home," Pietro interrupted, and tried not to sound too frantic. "With Todd Tolensky, and Frederick Dukes, and-" 

"And Lance Alvers, yes, I see," she nodded thoughtfully, and looked as though she wanted to say more. He'd have to get into the school records sometime and see whatever other damning information they had on him. 

"Well, we'd better get going!" he said with a smile, grabbing Lance and hauling him out the door. 

... 

Days turned into weeks, and before he knew it a month had passed; a monotony of school and practice and training and shoplifting, with the occasional tiff against the X-Men to add some flavor to everyday life. 

Lance's issues with authority figures didn't stop at teachers and office administrators. Everyone- from their adult neighbors stopping by, to the mailman who spoke to him in a _you are a child_ voice- all got the same response. His temper was the opposite of Pietro's: a short, explosive fuse that, once it'd cleared the air, somehow set everyone more at ease, like the smell of rain lingering long after a storm had passed. 

It was easy to learn how to get under his skin and push his buttons, but Pietro tried to use restraint- when he remembered to, at least. He wasn't actively _trying_ to make enemies, but it was just... entertaining. To see Lance's face redden as he tried to remain cool and impassive, as small quakes made the mugs in their cabinets rattle until he finally broke down and started yelling. 

Like an avalanche, it was both breathtaking and brief, and Pietro got an undeniable adrenalin rush from baiting him. 

Still though. He was trying to be good. Mostly. 

They didn't _truly_ fight until Rogue got on her uppity high horse and decided they weren't good enough for her. 

"What the _fuck?!"_ Pietro yelped when he saw her bedroom door yawning open, her things gone and only a note on the shelf where once her stuffed cat had rested: _I've gone to join the X-Men. I'm sorry._

"Oh, shit. Oh, oh no..." 

He gripped handfuls of his own white hair, staring in horror at the place where once she'd called home. Oh, he was _so screwed_ when his dad found out. He wracked his brains frantically; had there been any indication that this would happen? Sure, she'd been distant recently, but... but she was _Rogue,_ she was a moody goth teenager! How was he supposed to have noticed, when that was how she always behaved? 

He turned, stomach churning violently, and wondered if he was going to be sick. She was Mystique's own _kid,_ a powerhouse his dad would be enraged to lose. It was his job to keep her here. This was all his fault. He could have been friendlier. He could have... have... _manipulated_ her into thinking they were in love, or a thousand other things. He didn't know what his dad would do to him for this, but it wouldn't be pretty. 

He barely registered Lance standing at the top of the stairs, silently witnessing his near-meltdown. 

"I'm going to go get her," Pietro decided, and warm relief flooded him at the prospect of _doing_ something about this calamity. He could fix this before it was reported, before it was a blip on Mystique's or his father's radar. He'd drag her back kicking and screaming if that's what it took. 

"Dude, no," Lance put out a hand and grabbed his shoulder as he passed. "Let her go. She made her choice. She's probably better off there anyway." 

Pietro, defensive as a feral cat, threw the hand off and rounded all his anger and panic on Lance in one fierce snarl. "What's that supposed to mean, _Alvers?!"_ he demanded, and shoved him hard in the chest. Lance stumbled back and barely managed to grab the banister of the stairs to keep from falling. He blinked rapidly and gaped up at Pietro, astounded that he would do such a thing as try to push him down a staircase. 

"Dude!" was all he could think to say when Pietro began to run past him. He'd made it almost to the door before the floor rippled and surged under his feet and he tripped, collapsing to his knees and smacking his nose hard against the wall. He heard a loud crack as cartilage snapped, and then the pain bloomed bright and hot as fireworks. He fought back a shriek. 

Lance was on him before he could recover, gripping the back of his neck to pin his face in place and twisting his right arm behind his back. The bigger man quickly straddled his knees and used his weight to keep the speedster from making his escape. 

"She's _gone,_ you got it?!" Lance roared, face close to his ear, and Pietro could tell how pissed off he was by the way the house creaked and swayed on its foundation around them. Blood dripped from his broken nose and ran thick and red down the wall, puddling in the cracks and mingling with the salty, pained tears that followed. 

"You _broke_ by _fucking_ dose, you prick!" Pietro groaned thickly, lips brushing the unpainted wood and cracked plaster. "Let be _go!"_

"Not until you promise you're gonna leave her alone," Lance said sternly, his hands iron-strong where they held him down. "There's nothing for her here. Maybe she was tired of having to steal food and pencils and fucking tampons all the time! They'll take better care of her there, and train her better too. She might even be happy someday." 

He had a point. Mystique more or less left them to their own devices, and the money she allotted them didn't cover much. Days and sometimes weeks passed before they saw her, and they'd all found their own ways of making ends meet. Todd, having lived on the streets since his own powers began manifesting in middle school, knew all the tricks: party-crashing to stock up on food and supplies, stuffing socks up vending machine coin slots to collect loose change; but Pietro had found scraping by a difficult adjustment and so, apparently, had Rogue. 

Understanding did nothing to improve _his_ situation, however. His father had planted him here for a reason, and any funny business would, of course, be his fault. 

The rumbling around them gradually ceased as his struggles weakened, and he'd forever blame the broken nose for the tears that kept on falling. When he slumped in defeat, Lance's hands instantly went from restraints to supports, wrapping around his chest and pulling him back into something Pietro would never, _ever_ admit to calling a hug. 

He trembled in Lance's arms, snot and tears and blood leaking from his horrible, ugly, puffy face. He tried not to dwell on how safe he felt, despite the violence that had preceded this moment, of the soft mown-grass smell of Lance cradling him. 

Somehow, his presence made the threat of Magneto's wrath seem far away. Though he knew it was only an illusion, it seemed as though nothing could hurt him while Lance held onto him like this. 

"You're shaking," Lance observed after a long moment of silence. "Are you hurt?" 

_"Do,"_ Pietro lied aggressively, but turned his head and rested it on Lance's shoulder; serve him right if blood permanently stained his stupid t-shirt. "Bastard." 

Lance let out a half-laugh, his hand rising to ruffle Pietro's hair affectionately when he stood, hands gliding under Pietro's arms to haul him to his feet. "Come on; let me set that before it heals crooked." 

Recovering enough to smirk, Pietro followed him into the bathroom. "And look like _you?!_ Heaven forbid." 

... 

"What's that you told the telepath today? You're going to _rock her world?_ Pretty-boy Summers might object to that." 

"What?! You thought... But... Not like that, man! I just meant... because, you know, _rocks-_ I didn't- I mean- not Red; ew! She's so-" 

"Your face is redder than her hair." 

"Stop laughing!" 

"Make me." 

"Maybe I will!" 

"You'll have to catch me first." 

... 

"Happy birthday!"

The multi-voiced cheer greeting Pietro as he trudged down the stairs one Friday morning nearly had him jumping out of his skin. He'd already established himself as the earliest riser; company at breakfast was unheard of. 

Despite this fact, Todd, Fred, and Lance all sat around the table, leaving the chair voted least likely to fall apart for him. In the center of the table, sliced, was a bright red watermelon. 

Pietro didn't know what to say for a long moment as the three of them beamed at him. Was he supposed to say something? He was probably supposed to say something. 

"How did you know it was my birthday?" 

The question came out a lot sharper than he'd intended; he knew this when he saw three toothy smiles fade slightly. It'd sounded like he was accusing them of something. 

Todd recovered first. 

"It was on Mr. Jacob's birthday wall, yo," he explained. When he tipped back on his chair and put both legs on the table, dirty shoelaces trailing like gray spaghetti, Lance pushed them back down and shot him an annoyed look. 

The young and bubbly AP Calc teacher _did_ in fact keep a record of his students' birthdays on his wall, it was true: _Maximoff, Pietro_ was printed in his bold handwriting just above _Pryde, Katherine._ But- 

"None of you take Calc," Pietro said, and he _knew_ that his tone was coming out supremely bitchy now, but he didn't know how to stop it. He'd had no experience with this kind of thing; he had no idea what he should do with his face, his hands. 

"Well, so I went in to check it out when he was on his lunch break, _duh!"_ Todd rotated his finger around his ear, the universal sign for _somebody's not with the program._ Fred nodded sagely. 

"Oh." Something hot was flaring in Pietro's cheeks. He was not blushing, he was _not!_

"He likes it!" Fred exclaimed, delighted, and clapped his hands. "I remembered you said watermelon was your favorite food in that getting-to-know-you thing in gym class." 

It was a big watermelon. Without him to speed through the store stealing things while they distracted the clerk on duty, they must have _paid_ for the damn thing. 

"T-thank you." He cleared his throat, regained his composure. It was just some kind words and a fruit; there was no reason it should send him so off-kilter. 

A second later, Lance was literally knocking him off balance when he sent a rumble through the floor and tipped the good chair underneath Pietro when he stumbled. "Eat! Birthday Guy gets first slice." 

His face still feeling worryingly hot, Pietro did as requested. The red triangle of fruit was cut all weird and jagged, like someone had used a chainsaw instead of a knife to hack the thing apart. It was too big for his mouth, and juice smeared his cheek and jaw when he bit into it. 

"Happy birthday!" Fred crowed a second time, and then the four of them made short work of the melon. 

Everyone was in such a good mood afterwards that they actually cleaned up for once; wiping the sticky residue from the table and taking the multiple bags of trash that had accumulated over the weeks to the metal bin outside. They even went so far as to wash a few dishes before losing interest. 

When Pietro made to go upstairs and grab his bag for school, he was stopped by Lance alarmingly stepping into his space. 

"What-" he started to say, bitchy tone returning, before a knuckle gently swiped something from his cheek. A black seed pattered to the floor. "Your face is still messy," Lance explained with a smirk. 

Pietro felt his flush return tenfold; was it really?! He needed to go check it out immediately, but Lance was still standing in the way, suddenly so close that Pietro's brain went a little fuzzy, his mouth deciding to betray him with an involuntary pucker, blood filling his lips in anticipation of... something. 

Lance slumped onto Pietro with an enormous yawn, closing his eyes. "So fuckin' tired," he complained. "Woke up at the crack of dawn for you. I could fall asleep right here." He paused, seemingly oblivious of Pietro's stiff, unbreathing posture. "Happy birthday," he murmured into the side of his neck, lips brushing skin. He opened doleful puppy-eyes and offered a sleepy smile. 

Pietro felt a pang of something ridiculous in his chest. It was vaguely warm and fluttery and disgusting, like furry butterflies. Worse; bats. Stomach bats. Oh hell; he was diseased. 

"Alright!" Fred, dressed for school, appeared in the doorway and scooped Lance away with one enormous hand. "C'mon, you've gotta drive us. Todd will steal you some coffee from the teachers' lounge." 

Pietro quickly turned away before anyone saw how flushed his face was- a symptom, no doubt, of his soon-to-be tragic end. How they would weep at his funeral; _"He was so young and beautiful when cruel fate stole him away from us! O, that we had appreciated him more!"_ \- and mistook it for something it most _certainly_ wasn't. 

Unfortunately, Todd, who was sitting on top of the refrigerator, caught the look. His eyes widened in surprise, even as Pietro scowled forbiddingly at him. He looked back and forth from Pietro to Lance, and then a truly evil smile split his face in two. 

"I know something you don't know," he said in a sing-song voice, spitting a watermelon seed at Lance's retreating back. 

Pietro redoubled his scowl efforts, his anger burning hot enough to singe off Todd's eyelashes one-by-one. The Toad didn't seem to notice, the slimy amphibian. 

"What do you know?" Fred asked, half-carrying Lance to the jeep. 

Todd cackled and leapt over Pietro's head, landing at a crouch in the hallway and running to catch up to their ride to school. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret!" 

... 

Lance was a funny drunk, Pietro was later to find when Tabitha, their self-appointed new roommate, came home with a couple cold six-packs and some Meg Ryan videocassettes. 

"I call this party the Official Brotherhood's _Getting to Know You,"_ she declared, and because she was pretty and confident and a little bit scary, they went along with it. 

Truth-Or-Dare started alright; Tabitha painted Pietro's fingernails a flattering midnight blue (it was a good look; he decided to keep it) and Fred got Lance to strip to his underwear and jog around the block (Pietro privately had to agree with Tabitha's wolf-whistles on that one) but dissolved in the resulting tantrum that followed Lance's dare for Todd to take a shower. 

Now Tabitha, her face flushed with booze and her t-shirt having disappeared some time ago, was teaching an equally-intoxicated Todd to tango. Fred sat engrossed in the television, eyes brimming with unshed tears as he neared the climax of _When Harry Met Sally._

Lance, four cans into his six-pack, was fumbling with the button of his jeans and finally declared it a lost-cause, keeping his pants up with two fingers through a belt loop. "You're not drinking enough!" he told Pietro with a wide grin that wouldn't have looked out of place on a golden retriever. 

"There's no point!" Pietro replied, moving a few half-full cans out of danger's path as Todd dramatically dipped Tabitha backwards, her short blonde hair nearly sweeping the floor. She was cackling loudly. "My metabolism's too fast. I don't really get drunk." 

"Huh," Lance frowned. "Well that's boring." He opened his mouth to say more but, cheering, Tabitha and Todd knocked into him. Todd planted a hand in Lance's back and shoved hard, sending the earth-shaker crashing into Pietro, who was forced to catch him. 

"Sorry, my bad!" Todd called. The expression on his face suggested he was anything but sorry. Behind Lance's back, Pietro flipped him off. 

"You should dance!" Tabitha suggested, her own smirk mirroring Todd's. It was like they were all conspiring against him! 

Lance cocked his head, considering the challenge. Then, before Pietro could laugh it off and let him go, he'd grabbed Pietro's hand, twirling him in the same awkward way that Todd spun Tabitha. 

"Yeah!" Tabitha hooted, giving them both a thumbs up. "Now you're getting it!" 

"Fred, music!" Lance instructed. Still heavily engaged in his movie, Fred grunted and reached to press a random button on Tabitha's stereo, which loudly began to blast some cheesy surfer rock. Grinning wickedly, Tabitha turned her back and began to shimmy down the length of Todd's body. She wasn't half-bad, but Pietro knew he was better. 

"Just go with it," he told Lance, and dragged his palms down the length of his own chest and ribs, tossing his head back. 

"Um," Lance stuttered, and then laughed, shrugging. "What the hell." He danced with Pietro in the same unsure way Todd danced with Tabitha, following their leads. 

When Pietro peeked through his eyelashes, he saw a soft expression on Lance's face. 

"What?" he asked, slowing. 

"Nothing, just..." Lance bit his lip as though considering whether to say what was on his mind. When his contemplative look fanned out into a grin, Pietro knew that he would. "You're kinda cute when you smile." 

Warmth shot through Pietro's gut at the words; more stomach-bats. The disease was spreading. 

He rolled his eyes to cover up how flustered the comment had made him. "Lance Alvers, I am _always_ cute," he said haughtily, crossing his arms and turning his nose up. 

Lance's smile grew, taking on that wolfish gleam that always made Pietro's palms sweat. "That's for sure." 

Damn stomach-bats. 

The song changed to something slower; smoky and smooth and dangerous. Caught up in the moment and the music and the positive emotions of the party, Pietro released Lance, vaulted a chair, and landed square on the table, where he let loose, joints and spine sinuous as water as he lost all thought and became the music; all rolling hips and arched back and parted lips. He was a pretty girl in a music video; a big cat stalking prey across the Savannah. He was most definitely not himself, and it felt glorious. 

It felt like forever and no time at all before the song ended and, beaming, he opened his eyes again, only to find Lance, Tabitha, Todd, and Fred gawking openly at him. 

_"What?!"_ he asked, for the second time that night. 

Tabitha theatrically patted down her pockets. "I know I have a dollar somewhere. Lance, go put it in his underwear." 

The off-color joke made Pietro laugh, face reddening slightly. He used Fred's shoulder to balance as he hopped off the table, slightly out of breath. "What, can't a guy get a little carried away?" 

Lance cleared his throat, looking away. "I should uh. I should. Get to bed. School in the morning." 

"Yeah, me too," piped Todd. They both left quickly for the hallway. 

"Damn it," Tabitha groused. "Just when we were having fun." She looked quite cranky as she too stomped off for the room she'd stolen from Mystique. 

Coming down from the high of the dance, and deflatedly feeling as though he'd accidentally ruined something, Pietro sat next to Fred and watched the end of the movie with him, kindly averting his eyes when the large boy brushed away tears on the back of his hand as the end credits rolled. Then he, too, excused himself for bed, leaving Pietro alone to clean up the beer cans. 

There was still a light coming from Mystique's room, and Pietro approached cautiously to see that the door was cracked open and Tabitha was lying on her side in the bed, knees to her chest and back to the door. The flickering television on Mystique's desk was playing some old black-and-white thing. He thought she was asleep until she spoke. 

"This is the part I hate the most." Her voice was more somber than Pietro had ever heard it. "When the party is over, and everybody falls asleep, and everything is quiet." 

She seemed so morose that Pietro took a few hesitant steps into the room. After a moment's pause, he climbed onto the bed and sat cross-legged facing her back. 

"Truth or dare?" he asked. 

She paused to think, her painted fingernails tracing idle patters on Mystique's quilt. "Truth." 

"What are you afraid of?" He'd meant to ask something else, but he had no other questions. What could a fearless person fear? 

She rolled over to face him, and he wondered if she was upset about the question. 

"I'm afraid... that I'll turn into my father." She said the last word in a whisper. Pietro thought of the man he'd met- the big man with the angry face; eyes cold and hungry only for money. It was completely incongruous with the warm and affectionate girl before him, but the fear in her voice was real. 

"You won't," Pietro said confidently. 

"How do you know that?" She looked dubious. 

_Because I'm the resident expert of people turning into their shitty parents,_ he thought, and was surprised by the wash of guilt that swept over him. What was he _doing,_ partying with these people, pretending he was their friend? "I just do," he said, and in that moment truly and privately hated himself. 

"Hm." Her expression was more knowing than he liked. "Truth or dare?" 

"Dare." 

"Yeah, didn't strike me as someone willing to give up your truths." Her mouth quirked at one side, a wry little smile. "Fine. I dare you to stay up all night watching movies with me." 

"Done," he agreed easily. 

In the end, he was the only one awake, though he held still as she dozed off around dawn in the middle of _Kate and Leopold,_ her hair tickling his cheek as she breathed deeply. 

He rested his chin on her shoulder and closed his eyes. She was right; this feeling was the worst part of any party. 

... 

Looking back on the events that preceded Lance's abandonment of their group, Pietro wanted to punch himself. The signs were all there, and he'd pushed him away just the same.

Katherine Anne Pryde- Kitty- had been on the fringes of Pietro's radar for some time. Mystique and his father both wanted her; of course they did, her phasing powers were useful enough on their own, but doubled when they learned she could extend those powers to others just by touching them. 

He could have told them there was no chance of earning her favor. She was too good. Perfect Kitty, with her cute little face and her big bright eyes and her grades rivaled only by Pietro's in their year. 

She was Charles' good girl, through and through. 

And Lance had it bad. 

Pietro hadn't realized _how_ bad until one day they were in a fight- okay, not a fight, just a little sparring- with the X-Men near the sewer unit. Something to do with Fred making a pass at Charles' little pet, Jean, at lunch, and her turning around and tattling to Pretty-Boy Summers, and then a note was being crammed into Todd's hand in chem and it was all so stupid and childish and they went along with it anyway because they were unsupervised, superpowered teenagers and didn't have much else better to do. 

And hey- it had been _fun_ at first. Talking shit, posing, flexing. Making a few swipes and jabs. In times like this, with Evan giggling that little-boy laugh he still had- cheeks red, doubled over, wheezing for breath- when Pietro messed up his artfully-crafted hair, Pietro almost forgot that they were supposed to be enemies. 

Almost. 

He saw Kitty standing, unguarded, her back to him, and remembering that her grade in Calc had recently risen to an irritating half percentage higher than his, he couldn't resist the urge to dive and tackle her, grabbing her waist and spinning her in a cyclone-force circle, disorienting her. He let go and she sailed into- then through- Lance, falling hard on her backside. 

"Owwww," she whined, and Pietro felt a pang of guilt. He'd expected Lance to catch her. 

Lance scowled at him angrily, and raised his hands; suddenly the cement ground he stood on shook violently, rocks skidding underneath his feet as the pavement cracked. He barely had a moment to yelp before Jean picked him up and he hovered weightlessly above them all. Scott, seizing his chance, lowered his visor and sent a red blast of light his way. 

An old memory resurged in that moment: his father pinning him down, flashing lights into his eyes as he struggled and cried, too young to understand that his dad only did this _for his own good, son,_ rewiring his brain to help his powers develop faster, stronger. 

"Lance!" he shrieked in pure, blinding terror, and then he was knocked from the sky. 

He awoke to soft hands cupping his face, and moaned blearily as he focused on the concerned emerald eyes staring down at him. 

Recognizing Jean, he jerked quickly away from her. Something about her troubled expression confirmed his fears: she'd seen something in his mind, and he could only pray it wasn't Magneto's face. 

Evan stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Whoa, dude. You took a really hard knock to the head. I don't think you should-" 

He ignored his old friend-turned-rival and marched straight for Lance who, infuriatingly, had his back to him and was examining Kitty's lower back for bruises. 

"An ice pack should-" he was saying, when Pietro stuffed a hand in the other man's pocket and withdrew the keys to the jeep. "Hey!" he protested. 

Pietro shot him a cold, venomous stare, before he zipped off to where Tabitha was blasting Fred and Todd out of some concrete Kitty had, apparently, phased them both halfway through. "We're leaving," he told them stiffly. "Come on." 

Lance didn't come home until much later, when Pietro had already bandaged a scrape on Tabitha's cheek and half-wrestled a very reluctant Todd into the cold bathtub to soak his bruises. 

Immediately after slamming through their front door, Lance had Pietro by a fistful of his shirt and was throwing him up against the refrigerator. "I had to take _two busses_ to get home because you _stole my car,"_ the irate mutant growled. 

"What," Pietro gave him a condescending smirk. "Your new friends wouldn't give you a ride?" 

"Lance," Fred said softly. "Be nice. Pietro got hurt today." 

"Nice?!" spit flew from Lance's mouth in his rage. "He could have _killed Kitty!"_

That was stretching it a little far. She wasn't too badly hurt if she could still flirt in the sparring's aftermath. 

Lance's anger was always a bit explosive when he really got worked up and, in the mood for a fight, Pietro fanned it. 

"Aww," he cooed. "Worried about the Pretty Kitty? I didn't know she went for boys in the remedial classes. I'll have to pass a good word along for you tomorrow in Calc." 

When Lance's face reddened, Pietro laughed meanly. "Like she'd ever want you. Like _any_ of the X-Men would want you. You're just a second-rate mutant who double-crosses his team." 

"Guys," Fred whined, hovering uncertainly behind them. He hated in-group fighting; Pietro knew it reminded him of his parents. 

"Freddie, why don't you go see what Todd's doing?" Lance said impatiently. 

"Someone say my name?" Todd, towel-clad from the bath, sidled into the kitchen. 

Lance had eyes only for Pietro. "I'm here because I want to be here," he told the shorter man. "If I wanted to be with the X-Men, I would be." 

Pietro laughed even harder at that. "Sorry, but no. Charles is very selective with his cannon fodder, if you hadn't noticed. Just ask Todd; how hard did he try, really, to keep you?" He glanced at the short boy, who bit his lip and glanced at the floor, recalling his experience in Xavier's institute. "And he didn't even try to get Fred. As for-" 

The door opened, banging off the wall, then slammed shut as Tabitha arrived home from the store, and there was a jangle when she threw Lance's keys on the hall table. A moment later she'd followed the sounds of raised voices to the kitchen and propped her hip and shoulder against the door frame. 

"What's going on?" she asked. 

"Mommy and daddy are fighting,” Todd stage-whispered, and she quirked a blonde eyebrow in mild interest, like they were an amusing commercial she'd stumbled upon while channel-surfing. 

Pietro ducked under Lance's hold, throwing an arm over Tabitha's shoulders. "Tell him, Boom-Boom; tell him just how hard Charles fought for _you_ when you didn't turn out to be the sweet little doll he wanted! Face it; Lance. You're better off belonging to Mystique than to him." 

“I don’t belong to _anyone!”_ Lance growled, face contorting in anger at the insinuation. Pietro's nasty smirk grew. Tabitha, rolling her eyes, shook Pietro off. 

"Not that this testosterone pit isn't fun," she chided sarcastically. "But I'd rather watch paint dry. Have at it, losers." Towing Fred and Todd with her, the sound of Mystique's bedroom door slamming shut made Lance flinch. 

Turning back to Lance, Pietro breathed hard through his nose to calm down. It'd been a long time since he'd felt so angry; felt so much of _anything._

"You let them hurt me," he said accusingly, staring into Lance's eyes. "I'm on _your_ team. You're the leader. Take responsibility, or get the hell out." 

Lance opened and closed his mouth, emotions warring visibly in his eyes. Guilt, regret, anger, loss. Finally, he took a sharp breath, turned, and walked out the door.

... 

The days that followed flowed like a trance. 

At first, it seemed like no big deal. Sure, they now had to walk to school. So what? There was nothing Lance provided them that they couldn't get for themselves. Who needed that jerk, anyway?! 

Pietro crept into bed with Tabitha after the initial argument, noticing that Todd had already curled into a small ball at the foot of the bed, flexible legs folded underneath him. 

Tabitha grunted from her fitful sleep, opening one eye and throwing the blanket aside for him. When he sidled onto the mattress behind her, she tangled her legs with his, tucked his arm under her cheek for a pillow, and promptly passed out again, leaving him to breathe in the scent of Mystique's shampoo while feeling simultaneously too old for his body and too young to take on the world alone. 

Fred, too, came in around dawn, glancing at their sleeping faces before making a nest of blankets and pillows on the floor and reaching up to take Todd's dangling hand. The amphibious mutant laced their fingers together until Fred's soft snores met their ears. 

Pietro wanted to laugh at how pathetic the four of them were. It wasn't like they hadn't all been abandoned before, like the world hadn't looked at all they had to offer and found them lacking. They should be long used to this by now, to being left behind for bigger and better things. 

It should have stopped hurting long ago. 

School that day wasn't much better. The Brotherhood spotted Lance at his locker, and it didn't occur to Pietro to stop them as they strode menacingly towards him. It hit him, dizzily, that he called the shots now only when he saw Lance's eyes shift uncomfortably in his direction. Fuck. 

He let them rag on him for a while, but after their terse confrontation had ended, he quietly suggested they leave the Avalanche be. 

At lunch, seeing Alvers nervously approach the table where Kitty sat with some giggling human girls and awkwardly request a seat, Pietro excused himself for the track to run off some steam. Was this what school was going to be now, for the next year and a half? 

Their one class together- World History- was a tense one. He felt eyes on him several times, but when he finally grew annoyed and turned to stare back, he found Lance resolutely facing forward, even taking notes on what wizened Mr. Wilson was saying about the Mongolian empire. Since when did Lance take notes? 

That night, and the ones that followed, all ended the same way: the four of them piled in Mystique's room like puppies in a basket. Being in charge suddenly didn't seem as appealing as it once had, when it was now him required to boss Todd into brushing his teeth; his responsibility to wake Tabitha when nightmares made her whimper and shake; his job to coach group training. 

Though he'd never admit it, he missed having Lance around to compression-bandage his aching, overstrained limbs at night, to take him on rides in the jeep when the Brotherhood became too much, to sip a beer and give him a smile and a sincere, _"How are you, really, 'Tro?"_

For the love of all things holy; he'd only been gone for three days. When would the house stop feeling like a funeral parlor? 

He awoke abruptly one night, so completely alert - no gray, fuzzy place between sleep and wakefulness- that his heart pounded, certain something was wrong. He counted the bodies piled around him- one; Tabitha, on her side at the edge of the bed. Two; Todd, sprawled across the foot, his head cushioned on Pietro's calf. Three; Fred, snoring on his back in front of the door, as though to be the first to protect them from any intruders. Everyone was accounted for, sleeping soundly, so why- 

From down the hall he heard a soft beep. 

Panic welled up in him, a wild thing that twisted and clawed frantically at his insides, and then he was bolting from the room at gale-force speeds, into his own bedroom where he donned his shoes and the secret pair of jeans in the back of his closet within a fraction of a second, the heavy, beeping brick in his pocket a rectangular harbinger of frightful things to come. 

He let his feet take him where they would, barely registering the environment of an empty park at night with the stars and crescent moon high above his only source of light when finally he pulled the cell phone from his pocket. He tugged the antenna to its highest peak and put the brick to his ear before its third and final ring concluded. 

"Hello, father," he said into the receiver. 

"Pietro." Magneto's deep voice, absent for so many months now, felt like ice cubes settling heavily into his stomach, and he shivered, coming to sit on one of the three swings at the playground. "I trust you're doing well." 

"Father, I-" He wondered what even to say as the sharp November air sent daggers of cold into his bare chest. That he was glad to hear from him? That he'd failed him again and lost yet another valuable mutant? "I'm shocked to hear you survived the asteroid explosion." 

A lie. He hadn't seen his father climb into an escape pod, but he'd known, the same way he knew war and famine and death were always waiting just around the corner. 

"Shocked, or disappointed?" Magneto asked, and the accusation in his voice sent another shiver up Pietro's spine. "You were so easily defeated in battle. By Mystique's own ward, no less. You are weak." 

Pietro's tongue felt like cardboard in his mouth. He hung his head in shame, remembering Rogue's hands on his face, sapping his power and strength, and waking hours later in Evan's arms as the X-Man carried him safely home. "I know, father," he whispered. "Forgive me." 

"Forgiveness is earned, not gifted," Magneto reminded him. "I have more to ask of you." 

Pietro was briefly bathed in butter-yellow headlights as a car on the road behind him passed, stalled, and then there was a creak of tires as it turned around and came back towards him. Cops? Some creep looking for a good time? Whatever; that wasn't a priority at the moment. 

"What can I do, father?" 

"Bring your group of disappointments to the water tower on Thursday night. I want all of you there. Understood?" 

Pietro's heart stalled. _All_ of them? 

A car door opened behind him and then footsteps, distinctly masculine, began approaching. He gritted his teeth when he said into the phone, "Yes, father." 

"Good. And Pietro? Mystique might be returning to you soon. Remember, your loyalties are mine; not hers." 

The line went dead. 

The man walking towards him had almost reached the swing set. Dropping his phone, Pietro sped forward, ran a lap around the park, and was leaping upon the threat's back before the phone had hit the ground. He smashed his face into the park grass with his elbow and raised his other hand to strike a blow to the back of his head. Teach _him_ to sneak up on strangers! 

"Tro!" the man underneath him was muffled in the dirt, and Pietro stilled. 

_"Alvers?!"_

Scrambling off of him, Pietro crouched, eyes wide and ready to run. Lance rolled over, spitting dirt and blades of grass and then wiping off his face. His forearms had been grazed from how quickly he'd skidded across the ground. "What the hell?!" 

"No," Pietro's heart was pounding. "What the hell to _you?!_ Why were you creeping on me like that? What are you doing here?" 

_"I_ was coming to see what you were doing half-naked in the park at four in the morning!" 

"Why are we shouting?!" 

"I don't know!" 

They stared at each other for a charged moment. Then Lance sat up fully, and Pietro lost his defensive crouch. Looking around, he realized with a start that the park he'd chosen was just a block or so away from Xavier's mansion.

Lance reached for a duffel bag that Pietro saw had been knocked a few feet away by the force of his tackle and, feeling uncomfortable, Pietro quickly returned to the swing set and pocketed his phone. Lance raised his eyebrows, but wisely didn't question this. 

Pietro had no such qualms. "What's that for?" he nodded to the duffel. "The X-Men didn't kick you out already, did they?" 

He'd meant it as a joke, but the stricken look on Lance's face had _him_ raising his eyebrows. "They _did?!"_

"No," Lance glared defensively at him for a moment. "I _chose_ to leave." 

"... Oh." 

The color in his cheeks suggested there was more to the story. Pietro decided to let it go, for now. 

"So what now?" he asked, holding his arms wide and forcing a laugh. It sounded bitter to his own ears. "Where are you going?" 

Here, Lance shuffled a bit, glancing down at his feet and then back at Pietro, at a standstill. They were illuminated from behind by the idling jeep's headlights. He finally forced himself to meet Pietro's steady gaze. "I was hoping I could come home." 

Pietro wondered what to say. That he could get back in his ride and drive right on to hell? To shrug it off and act like it didn't matter either way? At the surface, he knew he had to agree; his father would be expecting Lance. On a deeper level, he had plenty of reservations. 

"Are you just going to leave us again the next time something _better_ comes along?" He intentionally echoed the words Lance had used when excusing Rogue's departure. 

Lance shook his head. "No, 'Tro. I promise. I'm with you from now on. No more mistakes." 

His tone was pleading, and when he stepped closer, Pietro held his ground, even when large hands took his arms. Lance was a physical person; likely something learned through siblings and boys' homes. "Forgive me." 

His fathers' words were on the tip of his tongue: _forgiveness is earned, not gifted._ He felt them on his lips, and knew he could crumple Lance with the words just as his father had done to him. 

Instead, feeling as though he were about to step off the high dive at a pool, he closed his eyes and spoke Lance's silent, physical language. Tipping forward until his forehead touched Lance's chest, he heaved a great, shuddering sigh. 

"Don't do it again." 

This time, he _allowed_ traces of that same fear and vulnerability to show in his voice. Immediately, Lance's arms wrapped around his waist, holding him tightly. A chin dropped onto his head, and Pietro's world was filled with that familiar mown-grass scent. _Safe,_ he thought. And, _home._

"I promise I won't," Lance said with emphasized sincerity when Pietro dared glance at his face. He was looking so intently at him that Pietro felt a single stomach bat wake from hibernation and stretch its leathery wings. His cheeks pinked. 

"Lets go home," he said. 

Once back in the jeep, Lance took his hand, and didn't let go once for the whole ride.

... 

The Brotherhood was as eager to readily accept Lance's return as he was to be back, enthusiastically throwing himself into the sway of things as though he'd never been gone at all. It felt at times as though Pietro were the only one who still felt the cracks. 

Tabitha was a bubbly godsend, easily smoothing over any awkwardness with wisecracks and snark. She was inappropriate and irreverent but just charming enough that she made people feel like they were in on her jokes, not the butt of them. Pietro found himself watching her seamless performances and wondering how much of this was her true personality and how much was a survival mechanism perfected over time. 

So, fine. Pietro could concede that life was better having Lance around, and more than just for keeping Magneto's ire at bay. He kept the group running. He led the charges. And much as it bruised Pietro's ego to admit it, he was a good leader. 

And he, it stood to reason, was nothing more to Lance than just another member of the team. That was fine; why wouldn't it be fine?! Stomach bats be damned; they had a job to do. 

"You look sad," Fred remarked one night over pizza (Todd had gotten lucky pickpocketing the burly, bullying senior Jean was dating; his wallet had been fat with cash. A few twenties wouldn't be missed). "Do you want to hold Betty?" 

Betty was the grey, speckled mouse he'd discovered in his closet and, despite the team's loud protests, had decided to keep; shoplifting only the finest of tall cages, exercise wheels, drinking water bottles, and protein-rich rodent pellets. For a boy capable of throwing trucks like they were baseballs, he doted on her like she was a newborn baby. 

"Don't give me that fuzzy rabies-machine," Pietro shuddered away from Fred's giant palm, from which a tiny pink nose twitched. Fred glared at him, then held her protectively to his chest. 

"You have been moping," Tabitha observed, throwing her crumpled straw wrapper at him. "What's your problem? Did the gas station stop carrying hair gel?" 

"I'm fine!" Pietro snapped, using a napkin to dab the grease off his pizza slice, a scowl fixed on his brow. 

"Not with that tone, you're not." Sometimes, she was too smart for her own good. "Rock-boy, would you get in here!" 

The soft plucking of guitar strings from Lance's nearby bedroom faltered, and a moment later he was shuffling to them, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired, likely just minutes away from putting his guitar down and hitting the sack. 

"Do that thing you do," she instructed, brandishing a chicken wing at him like a weapon. "That make-people-feel-better thing. He's been a wet blanket for days." (Here she gestured at Pietro with the wing to emphasize which _he_ she was referring to.) "It's getting annoying." 

_"You're_ annoying!" Pietro retorted, and he saw something bright glowing in her hand just as she turned a truly pissed-off expression his way. 

"Yikes," Lance muttered, and then he'd grabbed Pietro by the wrist. "We're going, we're going; don't blow anything up!" 

Tabitha's glare remained, but she reabsorbed the explosive ball of energy into her skin and resumed eating her chicken as Pietro was hauled out of the boarding house. 

"Where are we going?" Pietro asked, and he was resolutely _not_ staring at the way Lance's back muscles moved under his t-shirt as he walked, or the way the long, calloused fingers met and overlapped themselves around Pietro's wrist. 

"Well, since we're kicked out out for a while, we might as well go do something fun." 

Something 'fun' was, apparently, hiking a steep trail to the abandoned church they'd found in the woods behind their boarding house. Pietro could have raced there in less than a second, but leaving Lance to stumble alone through the dark, creepy woods seemed like a dick move. 

"This is real fun," Pietro said sarcastically when they reached the condemned and graffiti-tagged church. "Wasn't Todd living here before Mystique recruited him?" 

"Yeah, and let me show you what he showed me. Come on!" 

Lance led him around to the side of the church, ducking down and barely managing to squeeze his bulky frame into the gap between the rotting sidewall and the mossy forest floor. 

"I don't really like small spaces," Pietro complained, but followed after him. It was pitch black at first inside the church but as they straightened and walked forward inside the walls, wary of nails sticking through the drywall, they looked up to see starlight through the holes in the ceiling. 

"This is the only way to the roof," Lance explained, when they reached a dusty ladder. "The stairs inside rotted away ages ago." 

Curious despite himself, Pietro climbed up the wooden ladder leaning against the wall and emerged after Lance through a hole in the roof, grabbing the proffered arm to steady himself until he could crouch beside Lance on the steeple. 

Above them, a million stars spread in a canopy above them, and the waxing moon was almost bright enough to read a novel in its light. Below them, the treetops bowed and whispered in the slight breeze like lapping ocean waves. Lance was smiling broadly, head tipped back as he dangled his feet, heels thumping the roof tiles. "Cool, huh? In the sunlight you can see the whole forest." 

"Yeah..." Pietro was enchanted almost despite himself. Daringly, he pressed to Lance's side. "You're warm!" He exclaimed, as Lance's heated side came into contact with his chilled flesh. 

Lance laughed. "I run a few degrees hotter than most people." In a chummy sort of mood, he slung an arm over Pietro's shoulders, warming him. "I've actually been meaning to take you here for a while now; the opportunity just never came up." 

"Oh?" Intrigued despite himself, he risked a side-glance at Lance's face. He was chewing his lower lip uncertainly, something clearly on his mind. 

"You thinking about throwing me off the roof, or..." Pietro prompted when the silence grew too long. Lance laughed, and he sounded curiously nervous. 

"No, but you might want to knock me off in a second," he cautioned, and before Pietro could request an explanation, Lance took a deep, steadying breath, cupped his chin, and leaned in to kiss him. 

Pietro froze in place, eyes wide, at the very unexpected sensation of lips brushing his. After a delayed moment, an army of stomach bats flooded to life, jolting along his nervous system, and he pulled back with a gasp. Lance steadied his precarious position against the base of the steeple with a quick arm. 

"Whoa, don't fall." He then looked sheepish. "Was I reading you wrong? I thought you'd. You know. Like that. If not, I'm really sorry. I won't do it again." 

Pietro opened his mouth to say something- anything- but what came pouring out of his lips was, "Magneto is my father." 

He gulped at the admission, feeling helpless as a goldfish knocked from its bowl and onto the floor where it floundered and waited for death. Perhaps throwing _himself_ off the roof would be a good idea after all, and Lance would be too distracted by the broken bones and screaming to inquire further. 

He wasn't expecting the shrug and, "Well, I figured that much," that followed his admission. "Honestly, Tro," Lance continued, when he could only stare. "You look just like him. And you act so weird around him. It didn't take a genius to figure out that something was going on." 

When Pietro could only fidget, at a complete loss for words, feeling naked and exposed to drop his biggest bombshell and find it wasn't even particularly earth-shattering. 

"We've all got secrets," Lance continued seriously. "But I trust everyone in our team. Even you. I figure you'll tell me what you're able to when you're ready to do it." 

_He trusts me?_ Pietro thought. The concept was dizzying. He felt a newfound resolve, a draw to be as trustworthy as Lance thought he was. 

"Okay," he said softly. 

Now it was Lance's turn to fidget. "So can we, you know. Not talk about dads when I'm trying to make out with you? Or is that off the table?" 

Pietro's face flamed hot, but he had to laugh. "Shut up." 

Lance touched his forehead to Pietro's, smiling softly. His eyes were crinkled at the corners; a warm, radiating sort of happiness. Pietro averted his eyes to the side, but didn't move away from the big, warm hands at his waist. 

"So..." Lance said leadingly. "You like me?" 

"I said _no_ such thing, Lance Alvers!" Pietro snapped hotly, returning his gaze to Lance's and glaring. Lance's smile only grew, obnoxiously knowing, as though he could read Pietro like a book, could see through his thorny shell to the gross bat-filled mush underneath. 

Pietro huffed in sheer annoyance and leaned in to punch the stupid grin off his stupid lips. With his own lips. Softly. 

He was the luckiest boy in the entire world. 

_..._

**Author's Note:**

> (Arrives fifteen years late to the fandom with Starbucks) Hey whaddup? (Seriously I've been working on this fic for weeks and driving my roommate batty with my playlist of late-90s pop to stay in the right "mood" for this. MAY HER POOR EARS HAVE A REST.)


End file.
